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A    BUNCH    OF    ROSES 


DESIGNS   OF 

PINK   ROSES  TULIPS 

WHITE   ROSES,  HELIOTROPE,  AND  MIGNONETTE 

PASSION-FLOWERS 

POEMS     BY    PROMINENT    AUTHORS 
ARRANGED  AND  ILLUSTRATED 

BT 

SUSIE    B.   SKELDING 

AUTHOR  or 

"Easter  Flowers,"  "Maple  Leaves  and  Golden  Rod,"  etc^ 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  &  BROTHER 

SUCCESSORS  TO 

WHITE,  STOKES,  &  AEEEN 
1888 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Roses  (Louise  Chandler  MouUon), 5 

"  Roses,  I  See  the  Sweetest  Roses  "  (Richard   Henrj'  Stoddard),    .  6 

From  Menotomy  Lake,  Facsimile  of  Manuscript  (J.  T.  Trowbridge),  7 

Spring  has  Come  (Oliver  Wendell  Holmes), 9 

An  Invitation  to  the  Country  (William  Cullen  Bryant),     .        .        .11 

The  Heliotrope  (Frances  L.  Mace) 15 

Across  the  Street  (Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich), 16 

HELioTROPr.  (Edmund  Clarence  Stedman), 17 

The  Spring  is  Late  (Louise  Chandler  Moulton) 21 

From  A  Forest  Hymn  (William  Cullen  Bryant),           ....  22 

The  Passion  Flower  (Anonymous), 23 

Benedicite  (J.   S.  Black ie) 23 


[The  editor  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  and  Roberts  Brothers, 
in  gj£yitin£^- the  use  of  their  publications;  and  she  recognizes  the  personal 
coohesy/Af;  Liouise  Chandler  Moulton,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  J.  T.  Trowbridge, 
Frances  l!  Ma<;«,^,T.  B.  Aldrich,  and  E.  C.  Stedman.] 


Copyright,  1884, 
By  WHITE,  STOKES,  &  ALI.EN. 


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••  ROSES,  I  SEE  THE  SWEETEST  ROSES." 

From  "  Hymns  of  the  Mystics, 

Roses,  I  see  the  sweetest  roses, 

As  in  the  cool  kiosk  I  pass, 
Tied  in  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 

And  fastened  to  the  roof  with  grass. 

What  has  bewitched  the  grass  I  wonder  ? 

It  is  the  humblest  weed  that  grows ; 
How  comes  it  that  it  sits  up  yonder, 

And  on  a  level  with  the  rose  t 

"  Silence  !  "  The  grass  said,  and  in  sadness 

Let  fall  its  tears  in  pearls  of  dew ; 
*•  The  generous  man  robs  none  of  gladness, 

And  never  scorns  old  friends  for  new. 

I  am  no  rose  among  the  roses, 

And  yet  there's  not  a  child  but  knows 

That  the  poor  grass  that  tied  these  posies 
Is  from  the  Garden  of  the  rose !  " 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


SPRING  HAS  COME. 

The  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning  rays ; 
For  dry  northwesters  cold  and  clear, 

The  east  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen. 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green. 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns  ; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear ; 
The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 

To  light  her  blue-flamed  chandeHer. 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 


TULIPS. 


The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray, 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf ; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 

That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour, — 
Behold  it  withering, — then  look  up, — 

How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower ! 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near ; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries 

"  Bud,  little  roses  !  Spring  is  here ! " 

The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  the  May-dew  on  their  lips ; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 

Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 

On  beauty's  changed  corolla-shades, — 
The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 

With  rows  of  many  petalled  maids. 
•  •  •  .  . 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


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AN  INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

Already,  close  by  our  summer  dwelling, 
The  Easter  sparrow  repeats  her  song ; 

A  merry  warbler,  she  chides  the  blossoms — 
The  idle  blossoms  that  sleep  so  long. 

The  bluebird  chants,  from  the  elm's  long  branches, 
A  hymn  to  welcome  the  budding  year. 

The  south  wind  wanders  from  field  to  forest, 
And  softly  whispers,  "  The  Spring  is  here." 

Come  daughter  mine,  from  the  gloomy  city. 
Before  those  lays  from  the  elm  have  ceased ; 

The  violet  breathes  by  our  door  as  sweetly 
As  in  the  air  of  her  native  east. 

Though  many  a  flower  in  the  wood  is  waking. 

The  daffodil  is  our  doorside  queen  ; 
She  pushes  upward  the  sward  already, 

To  spot  with  sunshine  the  early  green. 


TULIPS. 

No  lays  so  joyous  as  these  are  warbled 
From  wiry  prison  in  maiden's  bower ; 

No  pampered  bloom  of  the  green-house  chamber 
Has  half  the  charm  of  the  lawn's  first  flower. 

Yet  these  sweet  sounds  of  the  early  season, 
And  these  fair  sights  of  its  sunny  days, 

Are  only  sweet  when  we  fondly  listen, 
And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom, 

Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye ; 
There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes. 

Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  wander  by. 

Come,  Julia  dear,  for  the  sprouting  willows, 
The  opening  flowers,  and  the  gleaming  brooks, 

And  hollows,  green  in  the  sun,  are  waiting 
Their  dower  of  beauty  from  thy  glad  looks. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE  HELIOTROPE. 

Somewhere  'tis  told  that  in  an  Eastern  land, 
Clasped  in  the  dull  palm  of  a  mummy's  hand 
A  few  light  seeds  were  found :  with  wondering  eyes 
And  words  of  awe  was  lifted  up  the  prize. 

And  much  they  marvelled  what  could  be  so  dear 
Of  herb  or  flower  as  to  be  treasured  here, 
What  sacred  vow  had  made  the  dying  keep 
So  close  this  token  for  his  last  long  sleep. 

None  ever  knew,  but  in  the  fresh,  warm  earth 
The  cherished  seeds  sprang  to  a  second  birth, 
And  eloquent  once  more  with  love  and  hope, 
Burst  into  bloom  the  purple  heliotrope. 

Embalmed,  perhaps,  with  sorrow's  fiery  tears, 
Out  of  the  silence  of  a  thousand  years 
It  answered  back  the  passion  of  the  past 
With  the  pure  breath  of  perfect  peace  at  last 

O  pulseless  heart !  as  ages  pass,  sleep  well  I 
The  purple  flower  thy  secret  will  not  tell, 
But  only  to  our  eager  quest  reply, 
"  Love,  hidden  in  the  grave,  can  never  die." 

Frances  L.  Mace. 


ACROSS    THE    STREET. 

With  lash  on  cheek,  she  comes  and  goes ; 
I  watch  her  when  she  little  knows  : 

I  wonder  if  she  dreams  of  it. 
Sitting  and  working  at  my  rhymes, 
I  weave  into  my  verse  at  times 

Her  sunny  hair,  or  gleams  of  it. 

Upon  her  window-ledge  is  set 
A  box  of  flowering  mignonette; 

Morning  and  eve  she  tends  to  them — 
The  senseless  flowers,  that  do  not  care 
About  that  loosened  strand  of  hair, 

As  prettily  she  bends  to  them. 

If  I  could  once  contrive  to  get 
Into  that  box  of  mignonette, 

Some  morning  when  she  tends  to  them — 
She  comes!  I  see  the  rich  blood  rise 
From  throat  to  cheek ! — down  go  the  eyes, 

Demurely,  as  she  bends  to  them ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


HELIOTROPE. 

I  WALK  in  the  morning  twilight, 

Along  a  garden-slope, 
To  the  shield  of  moss  encircling 

My  beautiful  Heliotrope. 

0  sweetest  of  all  the  flowerets 
That  bloom  where  angels  tread! 

But  never  such  marvellous  odor 
From  heliotrope  was  shed. 

As  the  passionate  exhalation. 
The  dew  of  celestial  wine, 

That  floats  in  tremulous  languor 
Around  this  darling  of  mine. 

For  only  yester-even, 
I  saw  the  dearest  scene! 

1  heard  the  delicate  footfall, 

The  step  of  my  love,  my  queen. 

Along  the  walk  she  glided  : 
I  made  no  sound  nor  sign, 

But  ever,  at  the  turning 

Of  her  star-white  neck  divine, 


HELIOTROPE. 

I  shrunk  in  the  shade  of  the  cypress, 
And  crouched  in  the  swooning  grass. 

Like  some  Arcadian  shepherd 
To  see  an  Oread  pass. 

But  when  she  came  to  the  border 

At  the  end  of  the  garden-slope, 
She  bent,  like  a  rose-tree,  over 

That  beautiful  Heliotrope. 

And  so  she  glistened  onward, 

Far  down  the  long  parterre, 
Beside  the  statue  of  Hesper, 

And  a  hundred  times  more  fair. 

But  ah  !  her  breath  had  added 

The  perfume  that  I  find 
In  this,  the  sweetest  of  flowerets. 

And  the  paragon  of  its  kind. 

I  drink  deep  draughts  of  its  nectar; 

I  faint  with  love  and  hope ! 
Oh,  what  did  she  whisper  to  you, 

My  beautiful  Heliotrope .? 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedfnan. 


THE  SPRING  IS  LATE. 

She  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields, — 
Brown,  sodden  fields,  all  desolate  and  bare,— 

"  The  Spring  is  late,"  she  said,  "  the  faithless  spring 
That  should  have  come  to  make  the  meadows  fait. 

*•  Their  sweet  south  left  too  soon,  among  the  trees 
The  birds,  bewildered,  flutter  to  and  fro  ; 

For  them  no  green  boughs  wait,  their  memories 
Of  last  year's  April  had  deceived  them  so. 

"  From  'neath  a  sheltering  pine  some  tender  buds 
Looked  out  and  saw  the  hollows  filled  with  snow; 

On  such  a  frozen  world  they  closed  their  eyes ; 

When  spring  is  cold,  how  can  the  blossoms  blow  ?" 

She  watched  the  homeless  birds,  the  slow  sad  spring, 
The  barren  fields,  and  shivering  naked  trees; 

**  Thus  God  hath  dealt  with  me,  his  child,"  she  said ; 
**  I  wait  my  spring  time,  and  am  cold  like  these. 


THE  SPRING  IS  LATE. 

"  To  them  will  come  the  fulness  of  their  time  ; 

Their  spring,  though  late,  will  make  the  meadows  fair. 
Shall  I,  who  wait  like  them  be  blessed  ? 

I  am  his  own, — doth  not  my  Father  care  ?" 

— Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


FROM  A  FOREST  HYMN. 

That  delicate  forest  flower. 
With  scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe. 

—  William  Cullen  Bryant 


THE   PASSION-FLOWER. 

Its  tender  shoots,  fostered  with  care,  extend 

Far  in  festooned  luxuriance, 
Its  drooping  flowers,  to  blend, 

Sweet  mixture  !  modesty  and  loveliness ; 

But  more — when  closely  viewed,  this  flower  appears 

To  bear  the  sacred  mark  of  sacred  tears. 

Adding  to  the  plant's  beauty — holiness. 

— A  nonymous. 

BENEDICITE. 

Angels  holy, 
High  and  lowly, 
Sing  the  praises  of  the  Lord ! 
Earth  and  sky,  all  living  nature, 
Man,  the  stamp  of  thy  Creator, 

Praise  ye,  praise  ye,  God  the  Lord ! 

Praise  him  ever, 
Bounteous  Giver ; 
Praise  him,  Father,  Friend,  and  Lord ! 
Each  glad  soul  its  free  course  winging, 
Each  glad  voice  its  free  song  singing, 
Praise  the  great  and  mighty  Lord  ! 

— y.  S.  Blackie. 


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